Vanishing Act Read Free Page B

an $8 fare.
    Stevie offered to split it, but she just said, “We’ll take turns.”
    Stevie’s dad had given him $250 in cash—telling him to use no more than $50 to buy an Open souvenir and try to get through the week without phoning home for more money. Stevie knew from his experience at the Final Four that he could easily spend the $50 on a hat and a T-shirt. Anything beyond that would undoubtedly break his budget.
    Bobby Kelleher was standing in the lobby of the apartment building talking on a cell phone when they walked in the door. He waved at the doorman to indicate Stevie and Susan Carol were with him, then smiled and held up one finger to say he would just be a minute. In many ways, Kelleher was what Stevie wanted to be. He was, Stevie guessed, about thirty-five. He was fairly tall, probably about six one, and lean—unlike a lot of the sportswriters he had met. Stevie had Googled him after the Final Four and learned that he had been a star high school basketball player who had ended up going to the University of Virginia, where he had hardly played at all. One of the quotes Stevie remembered about Kelleher’s college career went something like, “I was the only player in the history of the Atlantic Coast Conference to go four years without needing a postgame shower.” That would be a fairly apt description, unfortunately, of Stevie’s junior high school career.
    Kelleher had spent several years covering politics and then, after leaving the
Washington Herald
briefly, had returned there as a sports columnist not long after breaking a major story involving a recruiting scandal. Stevie remembered some of the grim details: an assistant coach who had been a friend of Kelleher’s had been murdered and Kelleher had helped solve the crime while revealing that Brickley Shoes and the University of Louisiana were trying to buy the services of a star high school player from Lithuania. That had been a couple of years back. Stevie couldn’t remember the player’s name.
    Kelleher snapped his phone shut. “Perfect timing. I just called the garage to bring over the car,” he said. He gave Susan Carol a hug and shook hands with Stevie.
    â€œSo, how are my two favorite media stars?” he asked.
    â€œLet’s put it this way,” Susan Carol answered. “We’re not expecting the Open to be anything like the Final Four.”
    Kelleher laughed. “We can only hope,” he said. He held up the phone. “Sorry about this. That was my wife. You’ll meet her this afternoon. She’s on her way up from Washington.” Stevie hadn’t been aware that Kelleher was married. In fact, he hadn’t given it any thought one way or the other.
    â€œIs she coming to watch?” Susan Carol asked.
    â€œComing to work,” Kelleher said. “She’s a sportswriter too. Writes a column for the
Washington Post.
”
    That surprised Stevie. He often read the
Post
online so he could read Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, his heroes—mostly because they had their own TV show. He didn’t remember seeing anyone named Kelleher among the bylines.
    â€œWait a minute,” Susan Carol said. “Are you married to Tamara Mearns?” Stevie knew Susan Carol read the
Post
too because they frequently discussed things they read there in their IMs. If Kelleher was Stevie’s role model, Tamara Mearns was Susan Carol’s. In fact, he had seen her on Wilbon and Kornheiser’s show on numerous occasions. She was smart and
very
good-looking.
    â€œYes, I am,” Kelleher said. “Tough being the second-best writer in your own family.”
    â€œShe
is
very good,” Susan Carol said, awestruck, then rushed to add, “not that you aren’t, Bobby.”
    Kelleher laughed. “Nice catch, Susan Carol. Don’t worry, I’m like Stevie—I enjoy hanging around smart women. Oh, look, here’s the car.”
    Stevie